The Sunflower and The Rose
by Darbracken
Summary: A collection of drabbles concerning the relationship of Ivan Braginski and Arthur Kirkland.
1. Beginnings

Auburn curls bounced around her, strands of golden light spilling through the boughs of the mighty Oaks. Through the grass she meandered, breath-taking, free, the secret and the joy of his life. His Elizabeth. When they wanted to be alone they stole away here, to this secret glade beyond the prying eyes of the court.

Pin by pin she'd release her hair, slip from shoes and run wild. She would laugh until he felt his heart would burst with his love for her. Sometimes they would talk, sometimes they would be silent. When she grew sleepy he would enfold her in his cloak and lead her horse slowly back home. Whatever excuse he could find to elongate their time together.

Today she unfurled a letter, mischief in her eyes. Arthur awaited her, as always, breeches hitched up his calf, demeanour relaxed as he lounged in the grass. At length she sat with him, demure as ever, close but not touching as was their custom.

"He writes again my love, imagine that."

Jealousy was plain in emerald eyes before she firmly quietened him.

"We should forge ties of metal and blood. What use is cloth and grain? Moscow and London should beat with the connection of military might."

Arthur scoffed, tilting his head back. It was hardly a love letter, nor his Queen in any doubt of the young man's intents. Jumpy little upstart, they had barely heard of Russia until of late. No, France was more a concern, or Spain, both vying for his beloved's affections.

"Arthur."

It was only when they were alone that she indulged in his name, each time it sent a tingle of pleasure through him.

"Yes my love?"

"I want you to engage this Ivan fellow, woo him if you must, I require his trade."

Suddenly he was sitting, mouth dry, stomach tight.

"My Queen it is only for you that my heart beats."

"Regardless Arthur, I would have it done."

Their eyes met, pleading and stern as Arthur reached out, his hand hovering over the petite counterpart. Dare he touch her? So many times they had stretched towards one another, yearning in their hearts and eyes. Always they had pulled away at the last second. She was to be 'untainted', above reproach.

"I know the ways of men and countries my love."

Reproachful but kind she withdrew her hand from temptations way and Arthur was, once more, defeated. Though he desperately tried to conceal it there was no hiding the special brand of madness that consumed him each time Francis paid them visit. Nor the fact he would refuse to visit her for some time after he departed, to give bruises and bites time to heal.

The preparations took a clear month; Arthur silently watched and waited upon one knee at his Queen's behest. Into his pocket she tucked a handkerchief, a memento to recall her by. Then she cast him out to complete her bidding.

The journey was long and Arthur's temper foul. In the end they left him to his quarters and his brooding. The closer they drew to Moscow the worse his mood became. Wasn't it enough that he had to interact with Europe as it was without having to sweet talk the man who was spoken of in dark whispers and declared as 'terrible'?

Arthur would do anything for her though, for his 'Bess'.

So when the day arrived he was in his finest breaches and doublet, emerald in colouration and embroidered richly. About his throat was the ruffed collar so beloved by his Queen and in his hands was a lute.

"Announcing Lord Kirkland, representative of the Kingdom of England."

If only they knew how apt that was.

Doors parted before him, in the distance two men stood side by side, awaiting him. Head held high he strode forwards to meet them, assured; the world would be at his feet one day. It wasn't until he was almost upon them that he locked eyes with the Russian representative.

Tall, ever so tall, with hair so soft and pale it could barely be called blonde. It was his eyes though that captured him, like amethysts, almost shyly watching him from behind his Tsar. Russia had the makings of greatness but there was –something- about him and Arthur, try as he might, could not put his finger on it. As long fingers tugged the woollen scarf higher Arthur drew to a halt in sudden revelation.

Ice.

The Russian representative was ice. Careful steps and it might not break beneath you and swallow you into unforgiving icy water. The wrong kind of pressure though and it would fracture and consume you. Arthur swallowed mouth suddenly dry. Russia frightened him. Russia intimidated him. Russia was incredibly attractive in a way none of the warm passionate Southern Europeans were. Here was a man he could wage war either against, or by the side of.

Woo him she'd said. Open trade routes she'd beseeched.

For one crazy second all Arthur wanted to do was to undo the Russian, spill him across a bed and find out what really would make him writhe. Then the Tsar spoke and the spell was broken.

Business resumed and Arthur played his lute. They spoke of trade and war and Arthur refrained from being caught in those eyes again.

Years later when they sat side by side under the trees, limbs aging and aching she had asked him of his first impression of the Russian nation.

For once Arthur did not answer his Queen, just smiled and let the world wonder at his frequent trips to Russia. There the man with the burning amethyst eyes held court. There his prince made of ice awaited him.


	2. A Time To Touch

It had been some time since that hazy Valentine's Day when Arthur had demanded Ivan's acceptance and claimed his lips. In fact years had passed. Still there was something niggling Ivan and it wouldn't quite leave him alone.

Their sex life.

It was always competent, usually fulfilling whether he topped or bottomed and generally a very gentlemanly affair. There was just something -missing-. As a younger man Ivan had often heard tales of England and his conquests. In fact the man's very name could inspire a definite surge of fear. So why was he so… tame in bed? Occasionally he'd been pinned to a wall or the bed but Arthur had always been an utter gentleman. It was starting to worry him. Perhaps he just didn't have what it took to make the Englishman really lose control?

So he started to leave little things around the house. A length of rope, silk ribbons. At one point he left army-strength handcuffs in the living room. For his part either Arthur was oblivious or he was playing dumb. Each time he cleared the item away without even batting a lash. Eventually in desperation Ivan had resorted to laying Arthur's imperial uniform out on the dresser.

"Alright, what is the meaning of this?"

A plumed hat was thrust in his general direction, emerald eyes somewhere between curiosity and irritation. Still the whole thing was embarrassing and Ivan didn't really want to discuss it. Leaving hints was one thing, full admission was completely another.

"You want me to wear this?"

A meek nod, crimson staining pale cheeks.

"You want…" Arthur was a lot of things, stupid was not one of them, his mind swiftly leaping from possibility to possibility.

"You want me to… overwhelm you?" It all made sense now. The rope that would have made good rigging, the handcuffs, the shy looks Ivan gave him every so often. A surge of heat sunk into his stomach at the thought of forcing Russia to his knees. Power was intoxicating and he enjoyed it greatly. Still he hadn't engaged in that kind of thing with his colonies, he'd merely defeated them. Of course he wasn't exactly unversed in power play.

Carefully he sat down next to Ivan, combing fingers through the elaborate plume to smooth it out. Hesitating for a moment, still flushed another small affirmative nod was given.

"I have two conditions. Firstly I won't tell you a date nor time, secondly… and this is important Ivan, you need to give me a safe word. The last thing in the world I'd want to do is make you feel uncomfortable or unpleasant. The second you feel either of those things you need only say the word and I will stop."

A very faint giggle born of excitement or fondness slipped from Ivan's lips. It was just like Arthur to be so concerned and frankly it was something to be grateful for. At times though he was eccentric or stubborn he usually had his heart in the right place.

"Sunflower~"

Ivan had almost forgotten about the awkward conversation, almost. Still it came as a surprise when the flicker of red in the corner of his vision was followed by his head swiftly being pressed to the wood of the kitchen table. Steel pressed to his temple, the eerie sound of an antique pistol being cocked drawing his attention immediately to focus.

"Hands where I can see them."

British tones were rough, guttural and commanding. Ivan found his mouth suddenly dry as he reacted slowly, lifting his hands to rest on the table before him. Arthur surely wouldn't shoot him, right? Of course he wouldn't die but the pain would not be pleasant.

Wrists were grasped and lashed together before fingers sunk into platinum strands and yanked his head back. When their eyes met he barely recognised his lover. Emerald depths were cold, almost vicious, a feral smile curling Arthur's lips. Roughly his jaw was seized as the shorter leaned in.

"The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, better known as Captain Arthur Kirkland, you'd do well to remember the name of the one to whom you now belong. You may consider yourself a spoil of war. I consider you nothing more than my pet."

Heat coloured Ivan's cheeks, a little anger too. Didn't this man know who he was addressing? Russia was no one's pet. Just as he opened lips to complain he was invaded, a hot tongue sweeping into his mouth, challenging and domineering. At first he fought back but before long he felt resistance wane as irritation faded into quite a different emotion.

"Come with me."

Tension down the rope yanked him from the chair. Sometimes it was easy to forget the force the small blonde wielded; usually it was hidden below well cut suits or conciliatory words. Now Ivan could appreciate it. Arthur was a force of nature if he wanted to be, he didn't let his size or the odds worry him.

Roughly he was pushed down onto the bed, arms trapped above him and lashed to the headboard. Feeling a little vulnerable he squirmed into the sheets, realising that Arthur was just watching him. Dryly swallowing he fell still, trying to work out what was going on in the Brit's mind.

"I think I'll claim you as my own. You're much too -cute- for the men."

Fingers trailed the inner of his thigh possessively, the barest scrape of nails causing Ivan to bite his lip. Breath was taken in sharply as the hand cupped his groin, rubbing him through the trouser fabric. An appreciative growl caused him to flush as he started to stir beneath taunting rubbing.

"I think I'm going to like you Russia, I think I'm going to like you a lot."


	3. Ghosts Of The Past

Heat swelled through his frame, flooding through limbs threaded into unyielding sheets. They had captured him as he twisted. The more he tried to escape, the more they twined around him, binding him, trapping him. Beads of cold sweat began to slick his brow, shoulder shuddering as the nightmare captured him, toyed with him.

_The forest is dark, there is snow on the ground and it stretches as far as his vision can see._

_The silence is un-natural; it fills him with uncertainty, with dread. Usually in a forest he would feel at home, between the trees the Fae folk would flit and giggle and dance. Familiar herbs would spring forth from a carpet of verdant green. Flowers would sway in a warm breeze._

_It is cold he realises then, arms wrapping around himself to block out the biting cold._

_**Red.**_

_Confusion melts into his mind before eyes trail down to see -it-. The uniform he detests so much, yet has kept secretly under lock and key. Tattered fabric flutters around his chest where the bayonet had plunged into him, slamming into his sternum. Tearing at him with all the fury and intent to kill that had poisoned his beloved America._

_Alfred's attack had been unlucky, or perhaps he had been the unlucky one for he had not perished. The scar remains though, not faded like those Francis had inflicted on him, it burns an ugly crimson mark of ownership from above his heart in an inelegant line towards his stomach._

"_I'm not that man anymore!" Violently his voice rises as hands tear away the fabric, no longer caring about the icy needles assaulting his flesh. Dark shapes flail through the branches as ravens take wing, their harsh cries seeming like accusations. Wrestling with the jacket he finally pulls it away from himself and throws it down into the snow._

_Icy fingers trail down his spine, a shudder a sympathetic echo of how invasive the cold has become. Numbly he begins to trudge through the forest, minutes passing before the puddle of blood red fabric finally disappears from his vision. Wisps of his own inhalation begin to distract him, blurring his path._

_It is then he realises he is not alone._

_Beside him travels a small white rabbit. It is silent, constant and he realises it had been there from the start._

_Hands bury into his arm pits, trying to keep himself warm. "It's a bloody cold night for a stroll." Frost dusts blonde lashes, the tilt of the rabbit's head revealing unusual amethyst eyes. "No, I bet you haven't got the foggiest where we are either."_

_The rabbit is silent. Together they continue to trudge through the forest, each footstep sinking England into the snow, trying to pull him down. Perhaps an hour passes and he is stood before the jacket again. Desperation tears at him as he sees the now stiff but familiar shape. Even though it has not snowed there are no tracks, he has travelled in a circle._

"_I don't want to see this shit anymore!" It was all history, now, right? Slowly the rabbit gathers snow with its paws. It buries the jacket. Fingers dig into wheat-blonde strands, they pull. Even if he can no longer see it, he knows it's there._

_They keep walking._

_Black water beckons as they reach a lake he has not seen before._

_He is afraid; he knows what his reflection will show._

_Still the rabbit peers into the water and then looks back at him, as though to summon him forth. Slowly England looks into the darkness and sees himself. A him that is not him. Wreathed in red, in fire and in blood, a wicked smile upon his lips. The Empire. The sun will never set upon him, because all he knows is darkness. Magnificent wings furl, ivory feathers scattering._

_The Empire looks back at him and reaches through the surface of the water. It wants to drag him down. Startled he tries to throw himself away but he is too late and he is pulled beneath the surface._

_Frigid water infiltrates his body and he tries to scream, falling through the lake with desperate flails. Chains pull him. Is he going to die here? Eventually he reaches the bottom. Empire is there, he is smiling. They stand and face one another and then he approaches. "I'll blind you!" Fear runs through his veins, they are the same are they not? But England doesn't want to be blind anymore…_

_The Empire covers his eyes, the hands are warm and so he leans into them. It is comforting. Feathers surround him as they press their bodies in tight. The scent of gunpowder is strong in the air; reflexively England's abdomen becomes tight, with excitement and with terror. He knows the uniform Empire wears; it can't be long before…_

_A pained cry tears through his consciousness as they are torn apart._

_America._

_Gloved fingers run through the feathers as Empire shivers. Involuntarily England swallows. He knows what is about to happen, he wants to reach out and stop it but sapphire eyes pin him. So softly America pets the quivering Empire, as though they are in love. But America is a demon and horns curl from his skull._

_Seizing the ivory feathers he tears. It is slow, agonising but they pull from flesh with a spray of crimson. Tears dance in England's vision; he can't interrupt this intimate scene. Hands shake violently; he knows what is in the Empire's mind. 'Let him do it.' Sins had to be punished after all and he had sinned so much._

_Being with America will make me a better person._

_Someone to protect and cherish, to raise diligently and pour all the affection he had restrained in favour of dominance in to._

_I will love America._

_That is why he, they allow it, even as the sounds become frantic and roll up the angel's throat. Because if they can be with America, America will burn away all of their sins. Even if the pain is excruciating they will reform and become a gentleman, one who can hold America's hand tightly wand walk into the light. And suddenly it's his wings that are being torn out and he's the one sobbing._

_Hot blood flows down his flanks and splatters against the floor. Bones creak and finally shatter, sharp spires that protrude from his shoulder blades all that is left. And suddenly he wonders when the lake had become Alfred's office._

_He is kneeling and under the desk he sees sad amethyst eyes. The rabbit is here too._

_America laughs at him and places his boot under his chin, forcing him to look up._

"_Now you've suffered as I have. I was a child and you forced me to choose between the big brother I loved and my own freedom. How could you ever comprehend the pain I felt when I first realised I had to choose my people over you?"_

_England weeps weakly, this is more familiar territory, it has a certain sense of de ja vu for it lurks often in his fears._

'_I'm sorry' he wants to say but he is buried face first into the carpet, surrounded by feathers stained with his blood._

"_I could never love you." America looks at him with cold eyes and he feels his heart breaking._

_Blindly he flees but he cannot get far before he runs into a body._

_Fingers slide between his and loft his hand high, the scenery blurs and he realises he is being spun. As opulence rolls by he knows he is in the Palais Garnier Opera House, the hand about his waist steadying him is Francis's. Disorientated he clutches the taller man, perhaps relieved, perhaps dizzied by the swift pace of the waltz._

"_Angletere…" Rich tones spill through him, a little shiver offered as France's vision settles on him. There is hunger. He knows the look and glances away flustered and embarrassed .Hands that create art, music, exquisite food and… love lift and grasp the stumps of his wings. A surge of fear seizes his chest as Francis leans in to claim him. The rabbit watches on with concern._

"_No!"_

_Suddenly the silence is overwhelming again and the dark forest swims back into his vision. There is a mound of snow, from it hangs the cuff of his jacket._

_A scream tears at his vocal chords and echoes through the forest._

_Pain. Anger. Torment._

_England is going insane._

_Snowflakes dance and ribbons of mist converge and slowly the rabbit grows, it takes human form._

_Warm arms wrap around England, they are secure, they radiate power. England falls silent. Together they watch the snow fall and the rabbit wraps his long beige coat around the frozen and pained body of England._

"IVAN!"

With a jerk his body sits up, swift breaths and hammering heart making him seem like he's trembling – he probably is. Reaching up his places hands against wet cheeks where tears have freely flowed. Pupils are dilated with fear and it takes him a few minutes to realise he is safe, he is still in Ivan's house and it had only been a dream.

But if it had only been a dream why did his heart ache so much?


	4. Married Life

Ivan had grown accustomed to letting himself into England's office when he returned home, so when he found that Arthur was not there he was pleasantly surprised.

Arthur was a workaholic, even when it was their turn to reside in England he seemed steadfastly dedicated to locking himself away with papers and books.

Still he always cleared one day a week to just spent time with Ivan, to take him sightseeing or to just spend the day in his arms.

No matter how much his boss screamed Ivan had come to realise that his little Brit could be just as stubborn, bullish and unmoving. No one messed with the sanctity of 'Ivan day', no one. Even France had given up calling because Arthur would have none of it and frequently just turned off his phone.

Thankfully Arthur's house was significantly smaller than his own so it hadn't taken him long to find the man, clutching one of the few things that hadn't been destroyed by the fire.

"Ah you are here Arthur."

Reflexively the book in Arthur's hands had snapped closed. Curious, Ivan had always wanted to ask about it but he'd never found the right time. Even all these years later England was an intensely private man, though he shared his home and body freely Ivan knew there were some things that he would never find out. It was something he accepted, just like England's refusal to do anything but lock himself in the bathroom every 4th of July. It was all part of their marriage, the give and the take.

So he was a little shocked when a little shyly Arthur offered him the book, cheeks pink with the start of a flush.

"Here.."

Letting himself be guided to the couch Ivan sat down, Arthur climbing up to wrap legs either side of his backside before he pulled the warm, heavy body back onto his chest. Sometimes Ivan would chide him but laying on England with strong arms folding around him was a comfortable and secure position. Even if he was nervous he'd one day squash the smaller man.

Reaching around him Arthur opened the book from the back, the very first page holding a photograph of them on their wedding day.

Ivan had worn a white suit and was blushing, almost crying as they had stepped out of the registry office. Arthur was in black, his spine erect as though he'd just command a platoon to march into battle. Still there was a shy little smile on his lips, emerald eyes turned towards the Russian.

"That was a while ago now."

Tones were steady and warm, fingers sliding into platinum strands as Ivan carefully turned the pages of the precious book.

The further back he went the more awkward the pictures were. England looked angry half of the time, though Ivan was sure it was only because he was flustered. Interspersed between the photos were tickets to the ballet, invitations, little reminders of the things they had done.

And then he reached pages that were no longer about him but instead were photos of Alfred. Usually of him caught unaware, sometimes blurry due to the speed of his movement but always taken with care.

Below him he felt Arthur stiffen but he did not stop him as photographs became older, sepia and finally trailed out into drawings, sketches.

Fingertips twitched, the simple silver wedding ring Arthur wore glinting in the sunlight as Ivan reached drawings of a younger Matthew, always holding a concerned expression. A warm breath blew by his neck as he felt the weight of Arthur's jaw rest on his shoulder. Reverently he continued turning. For pages there was barely anything and then Alfred burst through again, young, healthy and semi clad.

Ivan despite himself blushed, some of the things Arthur had drawn gave voice to the darker desires he had for his then colony.. And even though it was centuries ago he felt a little jealous of how the Englishman had obviously felt towards America, how deeply he had craved him. It was like he was able to see directly into Arthur's past feelings.

For a second they both froze as Ivan felt an unsteady breath against his back but determined to accept this gift he turned on until he found sketches of America and Canada as children. A warm smile touched his features.

"They were so cute.."

A weak laugh and a nuzzle against his ear.

"Yes, they were very sweet back then."

Even further back there were less neat doodles of Francis, though the penmanship was a little more sloppy and youthful.

When he reached the front of the book there was just a scribble that he half recognised as England's brothers.

For long moments they sat in silence before Ivan closed the book gently.

"Thank you.. for sharing that with me.."

A wobbly smile went unseen until the Russian rolled over and grasped Arthur's jaw gently, leaning in for a sensual kiss.

"Arthur if you want sexy pictures of me then we will do, da?"

For a moment he managed to look scandalised before heat fluttered in his belly.. imagining his husband sprawled out suggestively wearing nothing other than the band around his ring finger. Really the book was quite bereft of images like that.. so finally he replied.

"Da."


	5. The Sunflower And The Rose

This wasn't how it was meant to be.

Cold, morning kisses and fake smiles.

Something had to happen and now Ivan had taken the decision. Ivan had decided where Arthur could not. England was someone who was left, he was not someone did the leaving. So many times he'd hovered on the edge and pulled away at the last second because he couldn't.. he just couldn't put the knife in.

This wasn't how it was meant to be.

The snow prince and his dark knight. Together. Their fairytale of broken people finding happiness in together. The knight would stand fast and protect his noble king and the king in turn would greet the sun for the first time in decades. Together. The snow prince had desired the sun though, he had stretched towards it and been burnt. The knight had run away and left his king to flounder.

Arthur was a small man in many ways. The neat privet hedge, the organisation of his tea bags. Small things because he couldn't dream big anymore. Ivan had been his big, far away dream. The situation had become too big for him, it had crushed him. Arthur couldn't get past the second betrayal, it had ground him to a halt.

Ivan had smiled glassily at him. The key was cold in his hand. Goodbye.

Everyone always said goodbye.

Everybody.

Every time it was his fault. Arthur was disposable. Even his own brothers wanted barely anything to do with him, they wanted to get away. It was understandable.

So though every single thought in his mind screamed at him to go after the Russian, at least talk to him he remained frozen.

Because this was something he understood.

This was something to be expected.

This was all his fault. All of it.

He'd left it too long, said too little.

Now he was the frozen prince.

—

In the moments that followed somehow he managed to get into his home. He'd complained had been too crowded, to the point he'd left. Now it hung silent, empty. Drawers half full where Ivan's clothing had been and now only his remained.

A shaky hand tapped a swift text.

[Francis] Back home. Staying here. Feed cat.

And so began his period of splendid isolation.


	6. End Of An Era

In the end it was pointless to restrain him.

Men and women alike were pushed out of his path. Violence and fury froze human hearts as a swell of stillness grew around the fallen body. The crowds parted, hands tearing away the last obstacle between himself and Ivan.

Fear and revulsion twisted his stomach, the taste of vomit washing through his mouth as his headlong sprint slowed to a trot, to nothingness.

"No…"

It didn't take a doctor to realise the wounds that warped his beloved body were fatal, yet pale lips still curved when their eyes met.

"Privet... Arthur… I just… for our anniversary."

A little way away splattered in crimson droplets laid a bouquet of white roses.

"Shh, don't speak; you're going to be ok…"

To his knees he sunk, grasping cheeks that often blushed with careless intimate touches or the rare bursts of emotional honesty that came over the Brit.

"You've lived through worse that this! You're Russia! You can even take out your own heart!"

Emerald eyes swelled with tears, his body trembling like a leaf. In the distance the sound of sirens echoed through what might as well have been the desolate streets of his capital city.

"Arthur… will you do something for me?"

"Oh God anything, name it, whatever you want."

Desperately hands soaked in blood tried to hold the Russian together, barely able to speak through the painful lump in his throat, barely able to see through the watery haze that shielded his eyes.

"Come closer… let me hear you say it. Just this once?"

Hot fluid spilled forth. Arthur knew what Ivan had asked. No matter how long they'd been together, married even, he had never uttered it. It was an unwritten rule in their relationship never to lie. So even if the Englishman had never said it the Russian heard it through every action, each touch, every meaningful softening of emerald eyes when he caught Arthur looking at him.

Lowering down the faintest touch of lips was offered, the taste of blood filtering into his senses. A thick swallow and he pressed lips to Ivan's ear.

"I love you Ivan, I love you so much."

Violet eyes rose to the grey London skies, the very faintest of smiles crossing feature. Ivan had known it all along.

Seconds trickled past, the slight motion of the torn chest falling to naught.

And then the screaming began.

Broken, half mad, causing the gathered crowd to shiver and step back away from the scene.

"NO! YOU'RE NOT ALLOWED TO LEAVE ME LIKE EVERYONE ELSE HAS!"

Eventually the paramedics had been able to pry him away, it had taken some time but they had been gentle, comforting. It wasn't unknown for an unfortunate to be mangled by the wheels of one of London's famous double deckers. Nor was it unknown for a partner on witnessing the death of their loved one to react badly.

What would stay with the ambulance crew that attended that particular scene and haunt them for the remainder of their lives were the glassy, dead eyes of man who had been left behind and the only words he muttered before falling into total silence.

"I should have told him I loved him before…"


	7. The Order

The night the order had arrived he had been violently ill.

An innocuous enough ivory envelope, until he had turned it over and laid eyes upon the seal.

Treason no longer carried the penalty of death; it was only a recent development. Treason was not something Arthur could commit. It wasn't as though he hadn't killed before. Hundreds of thousands of people - in battle, out of jealousy, hatred, bitterness or love. Arthur's hands were tainted.

This, however, was too cruel.

_Ivan Braginski is a threat to national security. Ivan Braginski is to be terminated._

It wasn't true. Arthur wanted to scream it at the top of his lungs until his chest ached and his throat was raw. The only thing that tore up his throat though was vomit, hot and acidic. Shakily he had clutched the toilet bowl, saliva dripping as he sobbed silently. When Ivan had enquired he'd blamed the afternoon's attempts at cooking.

The day he'd complied had passed quietly. Peacefully. Arthur had risen early, prepared a picnic and lured Ivan out into the bright spring sunshine. Together they had walked into the hills, miles and miles until Arthur could walk no further and they'd settled in a wild meadow.

Slowly they'd eaten the picnic and Arthur had feed Ivan strawberries and pointed out various flowers and birds native to Britain. As the sun warmed them Ivan had become drowsy and settled with his head in Arthur's lap. Fingertips shakily pulled through silky platinum strands. Who could ever think this man was a threat? So trustingly he slept unaware of the danger.

Eventually when he had been sure Ivan was asleep he'd pulled the length of wire from its hiding place. Carefully he'd wound it about his throat so no tension could be felt. Death would be swift, as painless as he could manage it. If hands were not trembling so much... if he could just steady himself…

The world blurred, tears swelling into his eyes, he could no longer see. Ivan slept deeply, he trusted him too much. A thick swallow.

"Ivan I'm… I'm so sorry…"

Yank.

Somehow he found the resolve, the steel in the pit of his soul to do it right first time, so the Russian didn't suffer. So the Russian would not open his eyes and see this one last, final betrayal. The large body twitched violently, trying to escape death and then fell still.

And then England broke.


End file.
